


For the Lack of a King

by Wind_Waves



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Gen, M/M, tags and warnings updated as needed, yes another one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-20 08:25:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5998774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Waves/pseuds/Wind_Waves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Hart, vampire, wants as little to do with Hunters as humanly possible.  Unfortunately, politics and an inconvenient life debt conspire to once more place him in the path of one such Hunter- Eggsy Unwin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Home. 

He’s home. 

Harry steps out of the taxi and inhales lightly, allowing the air of the city to gather and swirl in his lungs. He can smell dust, coal, gasoline exhaust, and the faint, damp stone scent from the moist pavement beneath his feet. 

The wetness can be explained by the fact that it is four o’ clock on a particularly blustery day in London. A faint shower begins to fall from the sky in petulant fits. The drizzle doesn’t bother him, much; it’s the wind that’s sure to come after that he dreads. It tends to make a mess of things; clothes, hair, even blowing rain onto to his glasses to form blurry spots. 

It would be best to be well indoors by the time the full storm hits. He lifts a long umbrella from where it has been resting, crooked over his arm, and unfolds it into a great black canopy. It does its job, and Harry takes long strides towards his destination- the nearest place he can stop in for a good long while before people start giving him odd looks. 

Kingsman. Ostensibly, a tailor shop with a long history and an excellent reputation. The exterior is tasteful and elegant; the interior, more so. It caters to the wealthy, and also to something else. 

He slips in through the gilded entrance, and nods easily at the man at the front desk. “Good evening, Elyan.” 

Elyan, aged, white haired, who nevertheless pulls off a slim-cut waistcoat better than most of his clients, nods right back. “Evening, Galahad. Long trip?” 

“Yes. Much longer than expected.” 

“Guinevere won’t be able to speak with you, unfortunately. She’s not in- some issue with the stock. However, Merlin is here- he’ll pass whatever you have to say on.” 

“Of course,” Harry murmurs absently. He’s already making his way through the many shelves and displays of expensive fabric. “Thank you.” 

He doesn’t hear what Elyan says in response; he’s a little distracted, at the moment. 

At the back of the shop, there are several doors, each heavy, wood, antique- and labeled with a brass number. Harry enters dressing room one. It’s a good sized room, with solid furnishings and a huge mirror that occupies the left wall. Harry places his hand on the mirror, and the whole room shudders as it starts to descend to the depths of Kingsman headquarters. From there, the underground shuttle. It’ll be another forty-five minutes at least before he can see Merlin, and who knows how many hours before he can rest in the sanctity of his own bed. 

Almost of its own accord, his hand raises to rub at his utterly parched throat. He needs a drink.

\---------

Merlin takes one look at him and says, “Go eat something before you fall over, Galahad.”

Harry’s makes a face like he’s swallowed a lemon. “I’ll eat when I’m done here,” he says, folding himself into an armchair. It’s leather. Plush. Very comfy. 

“Now, Galahad.” 

“Must I?” 

The man’s glasses flash warningly. “You’re paler than usual, you stumbled over the doorstep, your hand is shaking on the armrest- yes, it is, don’t give me that look. Go fucking eat, you stubborn prick.” 

Merlin has been his friend for over three decades. It’s the only reason Harry doesn’t just remain rooted in the armchair. He levers himself out of the cushions and picks his way over to the cooler next to Merlin’s desk, as richly decorated than the rest of the room. If opened in front of clients, it would hold bottles of quality red wine. 

Harry opens it to a series of neatly stacked, sealed plastic packets. Each is labeled with a date and filled with blood. 

“Go on,” Merlin quips from behind his computer monitor.

“Merlin. Please don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.” 

“If I left you to your own devices, you probably wouldn’t eat again for another week, and then collapse like the overdramatic bastard you are. Like after Prague.” 

“It was once!” 

“Once too many. Think of it as a blood transfusion, if it helps.” 

“It doesn’t,” Harry grumbles, but he removes the topmost bag and slams the door shut in a fit of pique. Not too hard, of course; the cooler is paneled with an exquisite polished dark red wood. It would not do to damage it. 

Merlin snorts. 

Harry ignores him, and opens the cap. The seal tears open, and the room immediately floods with rich metallic scent. 

He smells iron, with notes of burnished copper; a faint hint of saline, and finally, the nuances of the blood itself. It’s slightly floral, with notes of vanilla and a hint of tart lemon, all combined with a faintly bitter finish. It makes his mouth water, even as the swish of the opaque red liquid turns his stomach. 

Harry puts his mouth to the opening and quickly downs the thing. It goes down as smoothly as anything he’s ever eaten; cool and rich, savory and faintly sweet. He drops the empty bag in a biohazard disposal bin neatly disguised as wooden paneling in the wall. 

“Happy now?” 

“Very. So, what happened?” Merlin says. 

Harry returns to the armchair, still tired, but a touch less so. “Not much. There are a few minor Red cavens in South London causing trouble. In the courts, the lower echelons are very active. Panicked, even. The ruling court and lords are also being even more reticent than usual. Perhaps, a touch nervous too.” He pauses. “They didn’t seem to like me much.” 

“Oh?” 

Harry shakes his head. “They were very careful not to let anything slip. Kingsman may have a lot of weight to throw around, but there is something to be said for age. Percival could have pulled this off more effectively.” 

“Possibly. But we needed you to develop a reputation in the courts. This was one of the better pretexts.” 

“As if I didn’t already have one.” Harry snorts. “But you didn’t call me here to discuss the results of my mission- which you were there for every minute of, might I add.” 

“No,” Merlin sighs, “I didn’t. I thought you should know. Lee Unwin’s son is currently training as a hunter.” 

The only thing that signals Harry’s shock is the minute straightening of his spine and shoulders. “What?” 

“He’s made a bit of a name for himself, actually,” Merlin says, peering at his computer. “Brought in a few rogue werewolves safely, turned in some Reds. A bit like you, actually. But more importantly- he’s a hunter, and recently, over fifty vampires were killed in a hunter raid. Suspected Reds.” 

Harry’s mouth twists. “Reds” is a common nickname for vampires of the Red Courts: vampires who have lost themselves to the taste of blood. They become akin to drug addicts, constantly seeking the opportunity to gorge. In the process, they can kill- but it is rare that they do. 

He’s new to vampire society, but from what he can gather vampires tend to be of two minds on the subject. Most believe that, if imprisoned, Reds can be rehabilitated safely with the blood of specially bred animals. The worst of them might be killed. The difference in opinion comes in whether hunters ought to be involved at all in the process. 

“And were they actually Reds?”

“We don’t know.” 

“That’s why the courts were being so secretive. They were preparing to retaliate.”

Merlin inclines his head. 

“Shit.” 

Merlin nods grimly. “I think, fucking hell was my reaction when I heard it from Guinevere.”

“What are we going to do about it?” 

“We have a plan, actually. It’s why I brought Unwin up. Does he still has the medal you gave him?” 

“He does. Why?

“Well. Based on our knowledge of events, we have good reason to believe that the Hunters will be facing a very difficult situation. Given a few hints, the right incentive, and that medal… All we have to do is ensure Chester King pulls his head out of his own arse for half a second, and we have our in.” Merlin steeples his fingers. “Kingsman will lend their aid to the hunter organization, and act like third-party mediators during the conflict.” 

“It’s a good idea, but King isn’t that receptive. He’s a stubborn bastard. It will take far more than that for him to allow any of our more… non-human members near the organization.” 

Merlin wheels around in his chair. “Normally, it wouldn’t be that easy. If we still operated with the same secrecy we used to, it would be very difficult. But we have a reputation. No one knows who we are, or exactly what we do, but our symbol- and our name- are known. It’s only a matter of time before we’re exposed, so we might as well pick the way we do it.” 

Harry’s fingers clench on the armrest. “So we’re going to reveal ourselves to a dangerous Hunter organization.” 

“Yes.” 

Harry sighs. “I’m assuming you already discussed this with Guinevere.” 

“She’s the one who created this plan.” 

“I’m quite certain she didn’t know about the medal. Or my connection to Gary Unwin.” 

“I may have helped,” Merlin admits shamelessly. 

Harry resists the urge to strangle his best friend. It would be hard to find a replacement. He presses a hand to his eyes. “In that case, why are you telling me this now?” 

“Well,” Merlin says, a slow smile curling his lips and turning into a vicious smirk. “We’ll need an ambassador.” 

“Oh? Who might this be?” 

“Someone with a deep knowledge of hunter culture and politics. Someone who the vampire courts can trust. Someone who knows of both worlds, and can be the bridge between both. And also- someone who is a neutral third party in the proceedings.” 

The blood drains from Harry’s face. “I refuse,” he says firmly. 

Merlin’s grin merely grows sharper. “Conveniently, this someone that we are referring to- also happens to be one of our only personal connections to the Hunter organization. That someone-“ 

“No,” Harry says, muffled by his hands. 

“-Is you,” Merlin finishes triumphantly, beaming. 

Harry makes an indistinguishable noise. 

“Guinevere has already approved, by the way.” 

Harry sighs, and resigns himself to his fate. 

\------  
Things don’t start moving right away. 

Oh, Harry would prefer it to; inaction does him no good, and the longer Merlin has him on the bench, the more irritable and bored and apprehensive he becomes. But even he knows the importance of planning. 

Then, one day, the course of events is decided for them. 

Harry’s in the middle of some particularly dense paperwork when it happens. It requires Merlin’s input, because of course it does, and his pen skews across the paper when he feels something yank just behind his heart. 

He makes a face. “Merlin, I believe someone is attempting to summon me.” 

Merlin’s eyebrows go up. “And you can feel it through the wards?” 

Harry frowns, rubbing absently at his sternum. He feels the pull, again, but this time with it comes a flicker of memory-

Call me. If you need me, I will come.

“The medal,” he says. 

The look of dawning horror on Merlin’s face is a sight to behold. Then he buries his face in his hands. “Harry. Really. God-fucking-damnit. You have got to be kidding me.” 

Harry stands, the chair scraping against the floor. “I rather think I’ll go.” 

“You fucking wanker.” 

“Well, you’ll know where to pick me up.” 

As he disappears, he hears Merlin shouting: “If you die over there, I’ll bloody well bring you back and strangle you myself!” 

Harry, smirking, vanishes into the air in a billow of black. 

He’s not sure what to expect when he arrives to wherever he’s been summoned. It’s entirely possible that he could arrive in the thick of desperate combat. But whatever the situation, he’s fairly certain that the young Mr. Unwin will be there. The medal only works for him, after all. 

However, he arrives in the exact center of a class seven shielding circle, maintained by seven individually protected hunters in an array, and surrounded by no fewer than ten more. Unwin is right next to him, and the young man startles violently. 

“There’s no need for that,” Harry says mildly, nudging the edge of a blade from his throat with a gloved finger. 

Unwin doesn’t budge. The tiny smirk on Harry’s face probably isn’t helping matters, but it’s difficult to suppress his glee at something finally happening after weeks of inaction. 

Harry lets the blade be. It wouldn’t hurt him, anyway; he’d need a silver-coated edge for that. Instead, he tilts his head and meets fierce green eyes. “You called me, and now I am here. Tell me, Mr. Unwin, what is it that you need me for?” 

The young man, after a few tense moments, sheaths his knife. Harry feels a little pinned by his gaze regardless. When he speaks, it is rough- south London, if Harry is not mistaken. “Who are you, and what do you know about Kingsman?” 

Harry casts his gaze around the room. “This is no place to have a conversation. But for starters, my name is Harry Hart.” He opens his wallet, and hands Unwin a card. 

It’s quite well-designed, and made of smooth cream colored stock. A tracker and listening device all in one, it also serves to spread the name of Kingsman tailors’ to the wealthy and the powerful. 

Unwin may not qualify as the latter, but in this situation the former two characteristics of the card come in handy. 

“A tailor?” Unwin says incredulously, and looks Harry up and down. “You ain’t a fucking tailor.” 

Harry shrugs. “Appearances can be deceiving, Mr. Unwin. I’d prefer to speak there,” he says, pointing at an address embossed on the card in fine gold lettering. “Bring a friend, if you wish. Your partner, perhaps? Miss Morton?” 

The other man scowls, and yanks the card back. “Like hell I will.” 

“Oh? I felt that, since you were so kind as to show me where your headquarters were, I’d do you the same favor.” It’s only a small lie; the tailor shop is a way to access HQ, not necessarily the center of Kingsman operations. Harry steps over one of the lines of the circle- chalk, by the look of it. Very practical. It blackens as he passes, sending up wisps of grey smoke. 

Unwin pales, gaze flicking from the black ash to Harry’s face. “We’re not in the Hunter headquarters.” 

“Let’s not begin our acquaintanceship with falsehoods.” Harry says. “King does enjoy his little traditions, and I believe his body would have to be cooling in the grave before he breaks custom. Even this room has not changed.” He looks around, expression bland. “If things continue as they are, in a century, the Hunter organization will not exist.” 

He can hear offended rustling from the edges of the circle. Unwin seems to have no such scruples. Something like realization crosses his face. “You’re Harry Hart.” 

Harry inclines his head. “Yes.” 

Unwin looks at the card, back at Harry again, then at one of the masked hunters in the protective circles. Harry can’t see any of their features; King must have broken out all the highest precautions for this event. Not that it matters, Harry thinks, toeing the break in the array with the tip of his oxfords. 

The masked hunter nods, a slight movement that barely shifts the high collar of their jacket. 

That seems to trigger something. "Well, I never introduced myself,” Unwin says. “Don’t call me Unwin, it reminds me of my dad. Call me Eggsy.” 

Eggsy holds out his hand. Harry, with a blink of surprise, takes it. “Charmed.” 

“So, Kingsman tailors’?” 

“The address is on the card. Feel free to come anytime.” Harry steps past the last of the circle. The remnants of the larger containment design go up in smoke, energy crackling up and down the lines. In his pocket, Harry feels one of Merlin’s charms, a silver circle circumscribing the Kingsman “K”, crumble to shards. 

“I’ll be on my way now,” he adds. He gives the stunned hunters a genial smile, then lets a Kingsman medal take him home. 

When he next opens his eyes, he’s in the medbay. A nearby woman, a water nymph, rolls her eyes. But she’s smiling. “Merlin’s in his office if you wanted to speak to him, Galahad,” she says. “He’s not in the best of moods. Apparently someone left unexpectedly, without finishing their paperwork.” 

“I’d best go placate him then. Thank you, Viviane.” 

She waves him off as he exits. 

Harry idly makes his way through the long hallways. His footsteps hardly make any sound even on the hard linoleum floors. Merlin’s office is heralded by a solid metal door. It slides into the walls to open, and is locked by retina scan that must be taken through Merlin’s glasses. In an emergency where the glasses might be damaged or missing, it can also be unlocked by voice recognition and a fingerprint scan in conjunction with a very specific magical code. Merlin decides who can have access, and who cannot. 

On top of the technological blockades, it’s also protected by some of the most powerful wards known to man, devised by Merlin himself. Nothing Merlin does not permit can get past the four walls of his office. 

Harry places his palm on the doors’ surface, the hum of a hidden camera whirring. 

The surface behind his hand flickers green, and it slides open with a smooth pneumatic hiss. 

“Late,” Merlin sniffs.

“As if you could possibly have any idea of when I would return,” Harry says. 

“It doesn’t matter. You’re always late, Galahad. It’s as inevitable as the sun sinking each night, rising the next day, my hair falling out-“

“It has.” 

“Exactly.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Well, I have returned safely, in one piece, and- despite your claims to the contrary- not late.” 

“Mm. How did it go?” 

“I believe King has less of a death-grip on the organization than he used to.”

“Oh?” 

“He wasn’t there for the summoning, or he probably would have had me gunned down on sight,” Harry says wryly. “But thankfully someone else was calling the shots that day.”

A beat passes, and Merlin groans. “That’s terrible.” 

Harry beams, continuing as if Merlin had never interrupted. “But I did see Gary Unwin. He prefers to be called Eggsy. And he seemed amenable to meeting at the shop.” 

“Surely not unaccompanied?” 

“A little unclear on that front, I’m afraid. We’ll see.”

“Very well. Report’s due the day after tomorrow. Debrief too.” Merlin peers at him over his glasses. “Try not to be late.” 

Harry shrugs. “It’s inevitable. Why bother?” 

Merlin grumbles indistinctly. 

“Oh, yes.” Harry dips his hand into his pocket, and draws it back out. “One of your charms broke.” 

Harry watches Merlin, fascinated, as a vein in the man’s temple throbs. 

Finally, he says, “Fill out a new weapons acquisitions form, and I’ll see about getting you another one.” 

“Not going to ask me how it happened?” 

“There’s no point in asking. You’d be a reticent, smug bastard, and I’d find out in the footage anyway.” Merlin waves Harry off. “Go home. And eat before you go.” 

“It’s only been three weeks.” 

“I know exactly how much power has to be channeled through that to shatter it. You’ll have to.” 

Harry wants to protest, but he can already feel a vague, gnawing sensation in his gut. He regrets showing off, just a little. “Fine.” 

“Take care, Galahad.” 

Merlin sounds uncharacteristically worried. Harry pauses with his hand on the doorframe. “Something I should know?” 

“No.” The other man hesitates. “But.” He sighs, taking off his glasses and scrubbing a weary hand on the stress-wrinkles between his eyes. “You don’t eat until you absolutely have to, and normally it wouldn’t matter. However, for what you’ll be doing in the very near future, you’ll want to keep yourself fed.” 

Harry purses his lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

And with that final thought, he leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the lovely comments! Even though I don't always respond, know that I appreciate single every one of them.

“Sos, this is the place, innit.” Eggsy says.

“Looks like.” Roxy’s voice is high and clear even in the mid-afternoon London hubbub, and she fits in to the rest of the crowd a hell of a lot better than Eggsy does.

Posh, that’s what this whole street is. Posh. Gilded storefronts and clothing that looks like it came straight off the runway as far as the eye can see.

Eggsy shoves his hands into the pockets of his Adidas jacket and scowls. “A fuckin’ tailors.”

“Well, at least they break the mold,” Roxy says archly. “What did you expect? A drafty, ancient ruin?”

Eggsy scowls harder, refusing to admit that despite the London address, that was exactly what he had thought. “What was I gonna expect?” he grumbles. “HQ is in the middle of a fuckin’ lake.”

“You may have a point. A tiny one.” Rox holds up her thumb and pointer finger, a few millimeters apart. “Like that.” She cocks an eyebrow. “Be careful, or your face will stick like that.”

Why does he even bother anymore. When on a mission, Roxy just doesn’t fuck about. Truly, Eggsy should be paying a bit more attention as he wanders, but he just can’t be arsed- he’s got the medal, and the super-fucking powerful Kingsman didn’t off him the first time around.

According to Research’s analysis of the residue leftover from the destroyed circle, which the Kingsman had blasted his way through like it was so much tissue paper, Mr. Harry fucking Hart was a vampire. So there’s that- he could have been killed right there, and not even go down with a good fight. He’d had his gear silvered after that.

Although Roxy didn’t say anything, she’d been shaken too. He’d come back to their shared quarters after debrief to find her polishing her favorite gun like a threat.

He knows where she’s got it stashed right now- cleverly concealed in a subtle holster and a giant coat that looks to be more fuzz than fabric for the weather. Eggsy grumps his way to the door in her wake, following closely- covering her back. She struts like a queen to the front, and pushes the door open. It gives a delicate, nearly apologetic little tinkle, utterly incongruous to the weight of the wards that lower themselves down on his shoulders, an enormous crushing weight.

“Fucking hell,” Eggsy hisses under his breath.

Roxy makes a show of tugging his arm and pointing excitedly in the direction of the made-up suits. He follows, arranging his face in a slightly grudging but besotted expression, like the beleaguered husbands he sometimes sees trailing their eager wives in Harrods’s.

“What is it?” She whispers in his ear, pretending to trace the edge of a sleeve.

“Wards- real subtle, didn’t even notice till I got through the threshold. They’re strong, maybe as strong as the ones at HQ.”

“What do they do?”

Eggsy grimaces. “I dunno. They’re pretty passive- I’d put good money on them being sensory, though.”

“Hmm.”

Some time later, Eggsy realizes he may have really messed up- the wards were more subtle than he thought. Over the course of the twenty minutes he and Roxy spend casing out the place, the other customers slowly filter out the door, leaving them alone save for the now very suspicious receptionist.

Roxy doesn’t even seem to notice, which is- fucking scary, actually.

He nudges her. “Rox.”

She looks up from a fabric bolt of shimmery grey pinstripe that’s probably worth more than a month of Eggsy’s pay. “What?”

“Did you notice there’s like, no-one else here?”

Her eyes dart around. “Shit.”

Eggsy jerks his head in the direction of shady receptionist. “Let’s go talk to him.”

She eyes the receptionist up like she’s planning how to kill him. She might be. “Alright.”

They go up, the man watching them and smiling genially. This close, Eggsy can see his nametag reads ‘Elyan’.

Huh.

He doesn’t bother with small-talk- just digs his medal out from under his shirt and holds it to Elyan’s face.

“Here to see Harry Hart,” he says, watching closely.

Elyan’s expression doesn’t even flicker. Eggsy gives him props. He turns to the side and picks up a phone that Eggsy didn’t even notice was there.

“A customer here to see you, Mr. Hart,” Elyan says pleasantly. A pause. “Very good.” He hangs up. “Mr. Hart will be down shortly. While you wait, would you care to take a seat?”

Eggsy can feel the heat of Roxy’s gaze burning into the side of his face. They exchange glances, her eyes sparking like a wildfire.

“Sure,” he says.

They sit.

It’s plush, the leather smooth and buttery soft when he runs his hands on it. Rox keeps flicking her eyes around like she’s in enemy territory- which, Eggsy supposes, they are.

He’s spent probably not more than a minute scrubbing his feet resentfully on the way-too-cushy carpet when a door clicks.

“Eggsy. I’m pleased to see you could make it.” Hart’s dressed to the nines in a two-piece suit, umbrella in hand. Unlike all the other vamps Eggsy’s met, he doesn’t have a crazed, jittery look to him- like a drug addict, shaky and fiercely hostile. No, Hart looks like the average posh well-dressed gent on Saville Row, tall and fit and handsome with a neat little curl to his hair.

If Eggsy passed him on the street, he wouldn’t even give him a second glance- and ain’t that a thought.

He shrugs in response to Hart’s greeting. “Yeah. Same.”

“And this must be Miss Morton, I presume?”

Roxy sticks her hand out. “Roxy Morton.”

They shake hands, quick and perfunctory, then Hart takes a seat across from them, folding his legs smoothly. “Well then,” Hart says, “now that the pleasantries are out of the way, what would you like to know?” He cocks an eyebrow at them.

Cheeky fucker. He’s just like his mission reports, hints of impropriety hidden behind superficially good manners and polish.

Well then. Eggsy can be cheeky back. Eggsy slumps lower in his seat. “Is this really your HQ? Not much security, is there?”

“There’s enough for our purposes.”

Roxy cuts in with, “Your purposes?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” he says, amused. “You- well, Eggsy, summoned me into headquarters that I haven’t been in for decades. I have no interest in returning, certainly; King and I did not part on good terms. Why would he authorize the summoning of a member of a supernatural organization? You may have your questions, but I also have mine.”

“You’re proposing a trade.”

“Of information, yes.”

Roxy leans forward, elbows resting on her knees. Eggsy lets her handle it; she’s far better at this diplomatic shit than he is. “Alright then. Do you mind if I go first?”

“Go ahead.”

“What is your connection to Kingsman?”

“I am one of several Kingsman agents, and carry out operations in the organization’s interest. Now, if I may ask: why did the hunter organization attempt to summon me?”

“As far as I’m aware, we were hoping to utilize your organization’s services. We were supposed to get the cooperation of whoever showed up through Eggsy’s medal, then let our supervisors do the talking. For what, I’m not sure.”

“I could hazard a guess,” Harry says, idly tapping his fingers on the handle of his umbrella. “Surely you have your own ideas?”

Eggsy peeks over at Roxy, whose face is carefully neutral. King hasn’t told him anything- not surprising, the man has it out for him. King hadn’t liked Roxy much at first either, but she’d won him over through a campaign of aggressive competence and perfect manners. It had come in handy when she eventually, somehow, got Eggsy recruited as her partner. Roxy might have caught an inkling of something, even in passing from King.

But he’s got his own grapevine to draw on, and he hasn’t heard anything good. “M’ not saying anything for certain, ya hear,” he says, “but I’ve heard things, and I guess us Hunters are not in good standing with the community right now. More than usual, anyway.”

“More specifically, we’re not in good standing with the vampires,” Roxy adds quietly.

Eggsy whips his head around, bug-eyed. Hart’s a fucking vamp, he could have seriously fucked them both over- why hadn’t Roxy told him?! She shakes her head, and mouths: “Orders.”

Seriously, fuck Chester King. Eggsy prays for the day that the old fart dies of a heart attack.

Hart doesn’t seem offended though, a little half-smile playing on his lips. “Correct. I don’t expect you’ve been told about it. Not much more than a month ago now, fifty suspected Reds were arrested, then slaughtered. By Hunters.”

Eggsy feels the blood drain from his face, and beside him, he hears Roxy say faintly: “Good god.”

“Yes. ‘Not in good standing’ might be an understatement. They’re calling it a massacre, and I think whoever carried it out should be very grateful that their names and faces have not been released.” Into the silence, he stands, brushing off his suit. “I can see why King might ask for our help. If you are truly interested in soliciting our assistance in this matter, you both should come with me.” He looks down at them. “Interested?”

There’s something like challenge lingering in the corner of the man’s mouth. Eggsy knows that Hart’s probably just trying to get a rise out of them, and that he might be trying to lure them to a murder-basement and drain them dry, but damn if Eggsy doesn’t want to follow him anyway.

Eggsy shrugs, getting up. “Why not?”

“Eggsy!” Roxy hisses.

“Rox, he coulda killed me in like five seconds back in the circle if he wanted to. He’s not gonna kill me now.” He looks back at Hart, amends himself. “Well, probably.”  
Roxy jumps up to follow them to the back of the shop, customers finally beginning to trickle back in. “Where are we going?” she asks.

Harry answers. “You can think of the tailor shop as a lobby, of sorts. You were right, Eggsy; this is hardly the most secure place for discussion of more important matters. I’m taking you somewhere a little closer to the heart of HQ.”

He leads them to a sturdy wooden door, adorned by a polished brass number. “Fitting room one. Come in,” he says, holding it open.

It’s a tight fit. Eggsy inches backwards to give Roxy a bit of room as she squeezes the door shut behind them.

“Now what?” Eggsy says.

“If you have any monitoring devices, now is the best time to register them with me, unless you feel like testing them against the strength of our wards.” At their skeptical looks, he continues: “They will not be harmed, and they will continue to record. However, I must request that visual monitoring devices of any kind be left behind.”

They’d been minimally equipped for this mission. Eggsy gives it a brief thought, and points behind his ear to a flat, flesh colored patch. “Hard to see, but we’ve got comms and listening. No visuals.”

Roxy makes a short, unpleased noise. She’s probably going to ream him out for this later. Amelia comes on-comms for the first time during this mission, chuckling. “He wouldn’t ask if he didn’t already know you had some. It won’t hurt if you tell him,” she says.

Roxy grumbles. “Same as him,” she says, and jerks her heard towards Eggsy.

Hart thankfully doesn’t do anything more than give each device a cursory glance, then turns to the enormous mirror on one side of the walls. He places his hand out on it, palm flat.

“What’re you doing?”

“A moment, please,” Hart says, and Eggsy stumbles as the entire room shudders.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Eggsy hisses under his breath as the the whole thing begins to move, sinking downwards along with his stomach at an alarming rate. Roxy, with all her composure, still goes just a bit pale.  
After he gets over his surprise, it’s not so bad- more like a massive freight elevator than anything else. It just keeps moving, until with a faint electric fizz, he feels the wards of the tailor shop lift to be replaced with something else, too vast and wide to even comprehend.

“Shit,” Eggsy mutters. “How deep does this thing go?”

“Deep enough,” Hart says dryly.

Finally, the thing comes to a juddering halt, and Hart holds the door open for the both of them. “After you.”

He steps into a new world, a factory of chilly stone and sleek metal, entirely different from the plush sedate warmth of the tailor shop. Eggsy almost turns back to check for some sort of hidden teleportation.

But, nope; still no signs of overt magic, even from a supernatural organization. Hart just strides past them, not even glancing back to see if they follow, to an enormous metal tube. With a pneumatic hiss, the entire front of it slides away.

“Coming?” he says to where Eggsy and Roxy are standing. Eggsy hoists his jaw up from where he’d been gawping like an idiot.

Kingsman, compared to the Hunters, is completely fucking modernized. Hart wasn’t kidding; if this is what he was used to, no wonder he figured the Hunters were behind the times. To the Kingsman, they must’ve seemed so badly outdated that Eggsy was surprised Harry hadn’t assumed they were still using rotary phones.

He trails Roxy into the weird pod-car. When they finally settle, Eggsy finds the state of mind to notice that the interior, as he’s beginning to expect, is posh. As. Fuck. Some things just don’t change.

“You never really answered the question,” Roxy says. “Where are we going?”

“As I said, somewhere a little closer to the main part of HQ.” Hart flicks open a hidden panel on the rest by his seat, and with a high-pitched whine, Eggsy feels the car- more like a subway train- start, machinery sending vibrations up his spine not unlike that of a deep bass. “If you would like to start up negotiations and finalize a contract, I am not who you should be speaking to.”

“Who should we be speaking to, then?” Eggsy mutters.

“Why, our head of operations, of course,” Hart says pleasantly. “You may call him Merlin.”

“Merlin, huh.” Eggsy rolls the word around on his tongue. That’s a loaded name. People don’t take the name of the most powerful sorcerer Britain’s had and toss it around like cheap pence. It’s got significance.

In his ear, Amelia says: “I have to go get Mr. King on-comms now. Behave.”

Eggsy scowls. He hates dealing with King. Hopefully he hooks on to Roxy’s line, and not his.

Roxy doesn’t even react much to the announcement, continuing as smooth as anything: “That’s not his real name, is it.”

“No.”

“What’s your codename then?” Roxy says.

Hart’s lips curl into a sort of half-smirk. “Galahad.”

“Like, the Knights of the Round Table? Galahad? Merlin?” Eggsy snorts. “Don’t tell me you’ve got Excalibur in a stone somewhere.”

“If so, Guinevere’s never told me.”

“Do you have an Arthur, too?” Eggsy grins.

“Not that I’m aware,” Hart says, a sort of mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“That’s strange,” Roxy comments, “to have the knights, the queen, and the wizard but not the figure central to the legend.”

“Perhaps.”

Hart refuses to say anything else on the subject, so conversation fades a bit after that. After a little while, he leans back against the cushioned seat. His eyes are closed, but Eggsy would bet good money that he’s perfectly alert behind that lax façade.

Harry Hart, after all, has one hell of a reputation.

When Eggsy summoned him into the circle, Hart set off a chain of panicked reactions. It had actually been kind of funny, watching people run around to look for the security breach. How had Hart known about HQ? How had he known about Chester King? And then the reaction when King heard about it was the stuff of legend mere weeks after the incident. Eggsy almost wished he could have delivered the report himself, just to see King’s face.

Anyway, after the panic died down, it was the work of a few hours to find Hart’s records in the archives, and his reports. Hart, wonder of fuckin’ wonders, had been a Hunter at one point, which explained why he knew so much. No one was willing to risk handing off the mission to someone else, because Hart had only extended the invitation to him and Roxy, and after Hart’s little power display not too many were keen on embarking what could have been ritual suicide. So. Roxy and him were the only ones bunked down in the archives that day, reading up on the exploits of a young Harry Hart.

And- well, Harry Hart the Hunter had been a fucking _riot_.

The man had balls of steel, or something- he flat out disobeyed mission directives, refused to have an assigned handler, and when he deigned to wear comms, he had any recordings funneled to his private computer with a security system that no one in the org could crack.

A whole shit-ton of his records were censored, probably courtesy King, because the old fart hated having evidence that someone could disobey him and get away with it. But it was enough to know that Eggsy might’ve gotten along with him if they’d joined at the same time, and also that Hart, whoever he was, had been terrifically strong even before being turned.

Apparently he was capable of taking out a wendigo. By himself. Jesus fucking Christ.

Towards the end, though, Harry had a partner for a few of his missions- Lee Unwin.

Eggsy had to take a break for a bit, after seeing that- but it explained why he even had a Kingsman medal in the first place.

Up until the last mission, Hart and his dad had been the dream team, according to Rox- 100% success rate, very little collateral. But that last mission-

There were actually no records of it. Hart never turned in a formal report. They only knew a little of what happened because King called him in to explain himself.

“I got Lee Unwin killed,” Hart had said.

“Good riddance,” King had said.

“Lee Unwin was a good man who saved my life,” Hart said, “and his name doesn’t deserve to be disparaged by the likes of you.”

King called Hart a fool who let sentiment get in the way of his job.

Hart called King an inflexible bastard who refused to see what was right under his nose, and intimated a few unflattering things about his family line.

King, in a fit of rage, had ousted Hart from the Hunter organization.

Hart had bared his brand-new fangs at the man, and gladly went.

To this day, no-one at Hunter HQ knows exactly how the great Harry Hart was turned, or the exact circumstances. The man himself certainly isn’t talking.

“We’re here,” Hart says, jerking Eggsy out of his thoughts.

The pod comes to a stop with a low-pitched hiss, and after a moment, the door unseals and lifts on its own.

Hart leads them down a brightly-lit corridor- more industrial steel and concrete, just like Eggsy’s old flat. Magic thrums in the very walls, saturates it, and in turn the ground hums like magic is its blood and bones and heart.

Every step feels like it’s on sacred land, and Eggsy has to suppress a shiver.

Roxy comes up close behind him, glancing around. “This place…”

“Yeah,” Eggsy mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah.”

Hart takes them through twists and turns and after a few minutes Eggsy can hardly tell which way from up. Minutes later- ten? Fifteen?- they come to an open door, a dark recessed opening in the sleek walls.

“Go on,” Hart says.

Eggsy walks in, and comes face-to face with a floating book. It's not open or anything, just hovering mid-air as if there was an invisible shelf just under Eggsy's nose. He goes a bit cross-eyed trying to look at it, until Roxy makes an annoyed sound behind him and shoves her way past. The book moves as he does, and it’s the latest, weirdest thing in a long line of strange things until Eggsy looks around the rest of the space.

It’s not just the book.

It’s the entire damn room.

Books, papers, files, flat screens so thin and sleek Eggsy’s never seen the like, they all float in a sort of organized chaos, moving and swaying like particles caught in a localized tide.

“Late,” a crisp voice says from a dense thicket of monitors.

“Merlin,” Hart says, sounding incredibly put-upon. It’s the closest thing to whining Eggsy’s heard out of the man’s mouth yet.

“Hmph,” the voice sniffs, and slowly, the items settle- papers to their folders, monitors to the walls, each thing in their place, drifting as would a balloon to the ground.

Eggsy’s eyes catch on the figure in the center of the room, a bald man with features like a hawk’s. The expression on his face looks like it’s been carved from stone. He looks them both over, and even through the glasses Eggsy gets the unsettling feeling he’s being scanned.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Take a seat.”

Eggsy, numbly, sits.

Merlin is an actual fucking magician. Kingsman has a magician on their payroll. Holy fucking hell, if they go up against Kingsman they’re dead as a fucking doornail. Shit. Fuck.

Roxy, brave in a way Eggsy can only hope to imitate, holds out her hand. “Roxy Morton, sir.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows at them for one horrifying moment, then leans over the desk to shake her hand. “Merlin. And you?” He looks at Eggsy.

Eggsy gulps. Hart was scary, but scary in a way Eggsy could deal with; Merlin could literally have them vomiting up their intestines with a flick of his fingers. “Eggsy Unwin.”

“Hmm,” he says contemplatively, his Scottish accent softening the sound to a gentle burr. “Alright. Hand them over.”

Roxy blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your comms,” Merlin says, “yours, his, it doesn’t matter which. I just need one to talk to your leader.”

“Yes, of course-“

“Here,” Eggsy interrupts. “Take mine.” Any option to not deal with King, yep. He peels the sticker from behind his ear and passes it to Merlin.

Merlin unceremoniously pastes it behind his own, muttering darkly to himself. A moment later, presumably to King: “You may call me Merlin. I am the chief of operations in Kingsman. What is it that you want from us?”

They don’t get to hang around and listen; Hart leans around from the doorway, and beckons them out. The door slips shut behind them, a seamless expanse of steel.

“What the fuck,” Eggsy says. His voice, much to his embarrassment, shakes.

“Mmm, he does have that effect on people.”

“That’s Merlin,” Roxy says. Even her voice has the faintest tremor.

“Yes,” Hart says. He looks amused, the bastard.

Now, Eggsy’s not stupid. Hart showed them that for a reason. It was a warning: _This is what you’re up against if you oppose us._

But for the moment, Eggsy shoves his hands into his pockets and shuffles his feet. “So, now what?”

Hart waves them over to a sitting nook, tasteful burgundy cushions set into a recess in the wall. He leans his umbrella against the seat, and folds his legs: one over the other. “Now? We wait.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a self-indulgent one-shot, but as with many things, it grew plot and sharp tiny teeth with which it promptly latched on and refused to let go. I hope you enjoyed anyhow.


End file.
